I Feel the Dark
by nostalgicbeatle
Summary: All sanctuary is eaten up by the low vibrations of the bug that creeps in the shadows. People are disappearing and dying. There is no escaping the Darkness. The Sire is rising, and his ultimate goal is inevitable. Turn, or die. Johnlock, by the way. Sheriarty, if you squint real hard. (UNDER CONSTRUCTION)
1. Sing A Lie, Ghost Of The Night 1 of 1

A/N: Yes, this part is finally finished. Completing the second part now. Inspiration from Opeth's _I Feel The Dark_, Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan's _The Strain_, and other bits of music and supernatural/paranormal things. Please tell me if I need to revise it more. At the moment, I feel this first part turned out pretty legit, but of course I need the audience's opinion. Please, enjoy. Like I said, tell me what you think. By the way, I will be posting this on Livejournal once I get the art up, so I'll update this once I get the link. AND I researched like a sonofabitch, so please check if I got something wrong or mixed up.

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><p><strong><em>Now and again we'll leave, we'll fly, we'll go out on a limb.<em>**

**-_Out On A Limb_, Faunts**

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><p>Just a couple minutes past midnight. A little longer till the sun comes up.<p>

The air is cool and damp. A light breeze and a sky thick with soft gray clouds hover over London. The wind whistled through the spaces between the tombs and brittle trees. A thin blanket of snow concealed the browning grass beneath, and little snowflakes idly drifted to the ground.

Crunching of tiny footsteps sounded in the night, becoming louder as they met with cement. A clumsy lurch, and finally a halt. She noticed a castle-like tomb with two stone angels towering atop columns guarding the tarnished entrance. Everything about the structure was corroded from periods of rain throughout the years. She scampered up the small row of steps, placed herself on the one closest to the entries, and huddled against its door.

Earlier in the week, the fluffy pompom ball that complimented her brown beanie was torn off from a loose branch from a small tree she passed underneath. Fortunately, she seized it in time before the wind could take it. She held it close against her bosom.

Crunching her legs up against her little torso, she wrapped her arms around her knees, and buried her face in her arms.

Strawberry blonde, Irish green eyes, small-framed, and the faintest of freckles, this little girl was lost. Frightened and confused out of her mind, she didn't know where she was, or how far she had gone.

How far she had ran.

Away… from home.

No, that wasn't a home. Not until after her mummy passed away and her daddy took control. If that even was her daddy. It was as though someone switched him for someone else in his sleep… or something possessed him. Yes, a devil, that's what he was. A demon. And that demon beat her and hurt her when mummy left. She swore he heard him laughing in the other room once he was done with her… or that could have been sobbing. Both emotions sound awfully similar. He always used the nearest object to inflict pain onto her. That cane was what gave her that bruise below her left eye. It hurt so much. It's still healing, sort of. She was only safe when she took a vacation to her grandparents in Ireland. They loved her and took care of her and were so kind and compassionate to her… she begged her daddy if she could stay there. Of course, the outcome was obvious. And that's why she ran away. To go to her grandparents.

In Ireland.

By herself.

She knows she needs to take a plane, but she forgot where they were. Her mind was still a little fuzzy after the cane.

She doubts her daddy is even searching for her. Like he would care one bit, anyway. She doesn't want anyone to search for her, though. She can go out on her own, she's old enough.

While reminiscing in past events, a snowflake nipped her nose, and melted as quickly as it did touch her. She shuddered from the cold, and goose bumps appeared on her skin.

She recalled her mother kissing her hair, and holding her close during cold winters like this. How she wore sundresses in the summer, and how she always used to put up her hair while working about the home. She recalled how normal she was, how clean and tidy she was. The scent of her lavender body mist still lingered in the little girl's senses. If only her mother was here now. Mummy would cuddle her and tell her everything will be all right, and hide her away from the freezing cold and the demon that haunted her home.

Her mother is gone, though. But deep within she felt… knew… her mother was still with her. She lifted her head up toward the angel above her, and curiously, it gazed back with stone gray eyes.

The girl scooted herself closer to the angel, and shifted her feet as much as she could away from the edge of the step, further in the dark. Closer to her only protection.

Moments pass, the rushing breeze calming. Her eyelids were starting to drift closed from all the lack of sleep she's been suffering.

Even though the moon wasn't shining, the dark seemed darker. The shadows around her felt eerie. She was never afraid of the dark, but something was pulling at her mentally, like something was wrong.

It's probably just the cold. It can make you feel that way, right?

Suddenly, the shadows around her became even shadier, and the temperature dropped so low that the coat she was wrapped up in ceased its job from keeping her warm.

Her head and eyes twisted and turned frantically, but she was too terrified to move an inch…

Abruptly, invisible hands clutched her by the shoulders, and she fell into the consuming wisps of black.

There was not a scream, not a shout for help. There was no sound, but the music of the winter wind.

All that was left was a couple droplets of blood, and her pompom.

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><p>Stepping out the taxi and slamming the door behind him, he struggled to process what he saw in that bedroom at the house.<p>

Her arms enveloped around another man's waist. Her lips on his…

And that that man was in fact his brother.

This was a nightmare.

He told her he was coming back the week before. All he wanted was her, and she's all he ever thought of. He never meant to leave for such an extensive time. He didn't expect to be.

The majority of his absence, she called him and he called her. _I miss yous_ and _I love yous_ were always said through the phone, e-mails, web chats whenever they got the chance. He promised her… _promised her he would come back_.

His face sopping wet with tears, he stomped down the empty sidewalk towards Her Majesty's Treasury building. He lifted his collar to block the bitter wind from biting his neck, and shoved his gloved hands into his jacket pockets.

A couple weeks previously, communication began to lag, and the longing for one another seemed to fade. She grew distant and held back from informing him of recent news. He continued to say he loved her and missed her, but all she replied was, "I know."

And then this happens. He should have seen it coming.

He turned off his cell phone during the ride, and hid it in his back pocket. He had no intentions on calling anyone tonight, or answering any calls. In his mind, he didn't have friends or family. That all disappeared just an hour ago, along with his heart.

He already had trust issues with people from a life consumed by betrayal and cynicism. From his mother never buying him anything for Christmas, to his own cousin and his cousin's friends killing his canine familiar with wooden bats and a BB gun, his life has been a living hell. He has been target for anything damaging. And as though by obvious fate, tonight he has lost whatever hope that was clinging from his soul. He is finally utterly and irrevocably broken.

He took the sleeve of his jacket and swiped it across his face, leaving it faintly damp from tears. As he stopped and stood far beyond the steps to the entrance of the building, he had almost completely forgotten about the small park just athwart the road. He decided to turn that direction and visit the park, maybe even stay there for the night if no one is to bother him. Jogging, he met the snow-packed grass of the park fairly quickly. He slowed his pace and focused on the crunching of the snow beneath his shoes. It relaxed him, and aided him from his current state of mind. He paced through the paved path towards the small lake that rested beyond the tall trees. He paused and crouched as close as he could beneath one, hiding him from anyone that could be near. He scanned the park to see if there really was anyone around.

…Must be home.

He checked his watch. Just a smidge pass midnight. No wonder. But wouldn't there be just a couple pedestrians running about on the streets?

He took his mind off the trivial thought. Instead, he again focused on the snow and the soft currents in the lake. A sort of meditation practice.

After minutes of lonesome, two fish popped their heads out the water for air and made the water ripple. The tiny splashes were plopping noises, like a pebble hitting the water's surface. It was pretty, and made the broken man's cracked lips turn up.

He rose from his place against the tree and strode to the edge of the lake. He stood there, wind stinging his black hair, sun kissed skin, and thick clothing. Remembering he had one last piece of gum in his pocket, he decided to devour it. Might as well.

He unwrapped his gum and placed it on his tongue. Placing the wrapper back into his pocket, he chewed. The mint flavor engulfed his throat and nose, and sent a tremor rushing up his hunched spine. He sighed, slow and easy, white breath escaping his mouth.

Without warning, his jaw convulsed—a spasm—and his lower canine punctured his lip.

He sucked in air through his teeth and whispered, "Ah, fuckin' hell!"

His bottom lip throbbed with pain. He placed his fingers over his lip, and gently applied pressure as though to test how seriously he injured it, for he tasted a bit of blood.

He lowered his head farther near the water, and pressed.

A small drop broadened and gradually seeped off his lip. It finally let go of his skin and dripped into the lake. Plop, like the fish.

The drop dissipated into a pattern like that of a flimsy spider web, and strangely faded to black as it sank deeper into the water. The man leaned closer to the surface to examine it, focusing his body weight on his foot that sat over a small bunch of rocks fair off the edge.

He felt a pull at his ankle, pressure, and a sudden jerk.

The water consumed his body before his mind could ever apprehend what had happened.

He floated beneath the surface, still, the only feeling he had was a pounding at the back of his head.

Lifting his hand in a dawdling gesture, he touched the back of his head. A gash.

Dammit. The rocks at the edge.

He gazed down, growing dizzy. There was an uncanny darkness that swiveled and swam beneath his feet. It also began to accumulate and swish around him, but his eyes were too blurred from the water and shadows, the mounting concussion.

The man began to kick and flail his arms and legs, but the water kept him from returning to the thin light of the cold night sky. The water also began to enter his nose and mouth, and slip into his lungs.

The black wisps that surrounded him thickened, and a pallid, distorted figure appeared before him, as though materializing from the black.

He could not see its face or any other detail of its body. But its form carefully came forward.

He felt its fingers creep up his arms, and his vision became stronger, but only for a second.

And in that second, he saw its eyes.

White, dead, a corpse's blank stare…

The surface of the water was thick and a bluish-green, dismal and calm. And near the edge where the rocks sat, a small blotch of black grew and grew, until it was a great, blooming blossom of red clouds.

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><p><em>Sometimes I don't know where we're going<em>

_Sometimes I feel you should be crawling back to me_

_Time is ticking by without us knowing_

_Before you know it, it will be too late to see_

The crowd marveled at the spectacular scene before them. The caramel-toned girl with curly chocolate brown hair twisted and twirled on the silver pole that rose through the center of the purple-lit stage. Every movement was in sequence with the melody of the music booming from the surrounding speakers. She demonstrated how complex pole dancing was.

The room was dimly lit, and like the stage, a shade of purple. The walls were purple, including the floors, which were decorated with a graceful black floral pattern. On every wall was a framed photograph of a beautiful woman. In every rounded seat was a man or woman, gazing at either dancers on each side of the room, or lounging in the bar areas.

On the other pole across the room was a thick-haired blonde whose skin was porcelain and clean of any flaws. Eyes blue diamonds and neatly plucked eyebrows, she as well coiled and bent about. The darker skinned girl outdid her skills, but she did not mind. Both are the best of friends and have been for years. Each night they performed, they would perform simultaneously. They would always smile at each other and chuckle to themselves from across the room. They would always point out the most attractive men in the room before deciding whether or not they were single. Plus, they would never leave each other side.

Both protected and cherished each other. They couldn't imagine themselves not existing in the other's life.

The beat dropped, and both broke out into a nearly impossible series of riveting moves. The audience gawked in awe at the girls, and once it was over, all applauded and shouted and whistled.

The curly haired girl's silver stilettos met the floor with a click. The moment they did, her eyes met with the blackest, most mysterious pair of eyes in the entire room… and they were just several feet away from her on the nearby row of seats. Clean black suit with a white collared shirt complimented with a black tie, his flair screamed luxury. He sat with his legs crossed, leaning back into the seat with his arms on each armrest.

Catching her amber eyes, he smirked.

Her face warmed, and lifting a brow, she smirked back.

Through that one small glimpse, something about the man made her stomach fill with butterflies and her heart flutter.

Her best friend across the room observed this. She coughed—a signal to gather the other's attention—and once she was nearly through the door, the other looked back.

The blonde jutted her chin at the man in black, a grin widening on her cherry red lips. Her friend beamed her pearly whites and winked, almost mischievously. This was going to make her night.

She's seen enough tears and heard too many sad stories.

The caramel girl stepped out into the room from around the back of the stage, and immersed herself in the ambiance.

The scents of wine and cologne and perfume wafted in the air. Purple was her favorite color, and was also one of the reasons why she loved working here. Fun and leisure defined this place. Her element felt alive and breathing. Pulsing. Reverberating.

She circled the room, passing the conversing people and the bars, just slow enough to take in a three-sixty view of the shadowy man without him fully noticing. He took a sip from his glass of what seemed to be red wine. When he sat the glass back on the table, the glass was still full. She assumed he took enough in to soak his tongue, maybe.

Sexy.

The girl took her sweet time to sneak up to his table from behind. As she did, he combed his fingers through his jet black hair. She studied it.

His hands were whitish, blue veins faintly visible through his skin. The veins spider until they reached his fingers, which were long and slender. His nails looked practically manicured.

Even sexier.

She even noticed how soft and manageable his hair seemed. When he took his hand out of his hair, it fell perfectly back into place. And the fact his head was slightly tilted to the side, the dim light of the room made his dark stubble contrast perfectly with his skin tone.

This was the sexiest man she ever saw in her life.

Finally just behind him, she gingerly touched his shoulder and said, "Hello, love."

The fine man turned and lifted his head, revealing a heartfelt smile, "Hello."

His voice. Oh, his _voice_.

"And how are you this evening? Enjoying the show?" She asked, lifting a brow.

"Ah, yes! Wonderful. Your performance was brilliant," After a quiet second he replied, "Would you like a seat?"

She felt her cheeks flush. She said, "Don't mind if I do."

**~.~.~**

Her friend was happily chatting with a couple at the bar. After a while she bid them a wonderful night, and left them to their privacy. Walking down the small set of stairs that led to the main floor, she spotted her friend sitting with the dark man, both smiling and laughing.

He seemed to have caught her interest quite quickly. This made her happy.

She went on with her business, pacing the room until the next show.

Meanwhile back at the table, the two nattered until she just couldn't hold it anymore, "Would you like a _dance_?"

His face froze for a fraction of a moment, before melting back into that soft smile. He responded, "But… wouldn't I have to _pay_ you?"

Her mouth turned up in a toothy grin. "Love, I'm givin' you one for free."

She offered her hand, and he took it. She then led him to the private rooms.

**~.~.~**

He sat on the edge of the plush seats, seemingly apprehensive. She placed her palm to his chest and tenderly pushed him further into the plush, saying, "Relax. I don't bite." Leaning her face closer to his and finally so close her lips were almost brushing the round of his ear, she murmured, "Hard."

The music played.

Like her dance on the stage, her dance on his lap was just as graceful and fluent. It was difficult for him to keep his hands tucked beneath his thighs.

_Come here rude boy, boy_

_Can you get it up?_

_Come here rude boy, boy_

_Is you big enough?_

The curvature of her body flattered her movements. It was as though she didn't have to try. It was as though it all naturally came to her, like she didn't have to remember the sequences of her dances. She was a marvelous human being beyond compare.

The song ended, applauses echoing from the main room.

The girl hadn't realized how close she had gotten to the man—on his thighs… just inches away from his mouth… her hands on his shoulders—until the cheering faded.

The man's eyelids were partially closed, lazily hanging over his eyes, obscuring the swirls of dark that consumed his irises. His lips were parted, making a dark slit. His breath was like winter wind.

Bitter cold.

Her hands glided up his neck and finally to his face. They kissed.

It was like a jolt of pure electricity and adrenaline. Tender pecks gradually grew into full-mouthed lip biting, and hands roving each other's body.

Jumping back into reality, she pulled herself away from him only to see that he was breathing just as heavily.

"Come to my flat."

It was more of a rugged command than a suggestion. Though, the man's eyebrows arched, and he immediately agreed. The two snuck out the back of the building, chuckling madly.

She knew she was going to be in a bout of trouble for this tomorrow night.

**~.~.~**

They bulleted down the barren hallway of the third floor to the direction of her flat. Her hand was clamped in his, and she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke little things.

Halting at the farthest door, she took out the key from her purse and unlocked it. Her home was livable and comfortable, the heater on low and the windows shut tight. Her bedroom door was open, revealing a vanilla colored queen size bed, the sheets and pillows a little rustled up and unmade from her last nap.

Without warning, the man's hands grappled her waist as he spun her towards him, and pulled her into a biting kiss. Her knees buckled beneath her, but she caught herself, along with his arm, and hastily hauled him into the bedroom.

The room grew hotter with every touch, her back to the sheets, her legs straddled, and coat and purse thrown to the floor. The man took in every inch of her with his lips and tongue, leisurely dragging off her blue thong, tasting the warmth between her thighs. Her spine arched and she moaned.

Her neighbors were thankfully off on the town, the rooms at the far end of the hall vacant.

As he worked himself out of his pants, she began to noticed how abnormally warm it became. Besides the fact that she was about to have extraordinarily hot sex, besides the fact that she was sweating bullets from the tension… the temperature in the room seemed to have risen dramatically. She knows it wasn't the heater malfunctioning. It was just fixed last week.

Her eyes gazed up at the man, bewilderment fading… quickly being replaced by shock.

His eyes were white. Filmed over, only the peculiarly dilated black pupil visible.

"Open wide."

And before she could attempt an escape, his hand flew over her open mouth, blocking the scream that formed in her throat, and he viciously pressed himself into her.

She felt things rip, tear, and she felt something hot ooze down her thigh. Her eyes were wide and overflowing with tears, bulging with panic.

The hot fingers over her cheek suddenly blackened at the tips, and finally grew into long talons, sharp and black. His mouth even produced fangs, each tooth razor-sharp and sneering.

His voice wasn't that smooth, sophisticated tone anymore. It was now guttural, monstrous.

A creature.

"Now… _scream_."

His hand jerked from her face, tearing the skin wear the claws were placed. He fisted the sheets, each hand at the sides of her head. His mouth opened. With a swift diving motion, his fangs punctured her just above her collarbone faster than a blink.

She has never screamed as loud as she had that night. She has never felt pain as great as what she was feeling then.

Tears poured, mixing with the blood on her face. The thing chewed and sucked, blood spraying like a punctured water balloon, drenching the sheets and mattress.

She felt weak, hopeless now. She couldn't push him away. She couldn't scream. Her breath began to come in little puffs. It was obvious she was dying.

She then remembered she forgot to say goodbye to her best friend back at the club. She was too enthralled with this gentleman to think twice.

She guessed she will just meet her some other time.

Her vision glazed, and there was nothing left to her than a bleeding husk on the bed.

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><p>"<em>Run, John! Run!"<em>

_John Watson's comrade screamed for him to run to the barracks. Another comrade of his was several feet behind him, stumbling and tripping over himself from the major laceration in his knee. His stamina was failing him, his legs abating him and turning into rubber. "Move, son!" John yelled as loud as he could over the sounds of guns firing and ear-busting explosions. "Dammit! I can't do this anymore!" The other man let out a sobbing scream. Before John could say another word to the fellow soldier, blood spewed out of the man's hip and a bullet hit the ground, a ball of dust emerging from the impact. John's eyes became wild, "NO!"_

John woke up from his bed with a jolt. Adrenaline rushed through him caused his heart to beat a million miles a minute, along with sweat rolling off his face. He slouched over and closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. After pacifying himself, he shook his head, taking himself out of the nightmares that always haunted him since the war. He got out of his bed and headed down stairs for some coffee.

"Coffee. Need coffee. Always need coffee."

Morning sunshine showed through the sliver of the closed curtain at the window. The fragrant scent of coffee engulfed the kitchen, enriching the air with a promising feel that a relaxing day of nothing to do was ahead. You _always_ need coffee.

He poured himself a cup, and smiled.

Shuffling on the couch almost made the coffee in his hand tip over from his little jump.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes was sprawled out on the couch, John's laptop balancing on his abdomen, his fingers clicking away at the keyboard.

He grumbled, "Yes, John?"

John replied, "Did you stay up all night on my laptop again?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Research."

John sighed and took a sip of his cuppa. He strode to the window and peeked outside the curtain. A ray of December sunshine showing from above the buildings partially blinded him, forcing him to squint and scrunch his face up a bit. Releasing a billow of air that was lodged in his lungs, he sat himself on the brownish lounge chair, pulling himself into it to relax himself even though he just woke up from a long sleep… which is rare to have at 221b Baker Street. He blew on his coffee, took a sip.

"Disappearances."

Sherlock's voice broadcasted out the silent void that blanketed about the room. John sat his cup on the end table. He pushed a faux perkiness into his reply, "Disappearances?"

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the laptop, "Yes, two. All within one week. A little girl, seven years old. A man, about thirty. Both mysteriously swiped off the face of the planet."

John lifted his brow, curiosity driving him. "Any evidence?"

"For the girl, only a couple drops of blood along with a pompom, obviously from a winter beanie, in Brompton Cemetery. A splotch of blood and hair follicles on a corner of a rock near the lake at Horse Guards Road for the man. Obviously slipped into the lake somehow, but there was nothing in the water. No sort of residue, nothing. The water was clean."

"Let me guess. Call Lestra-"

"Call Lestrade and inform him. Missing persons with only traces of blood left behind? This case… it's perfect for a Sunday morning." His face lifted, slapping John's laptop shut.

As John lifted himself off the chair to grab his cell, peevish from the sudden rush, the door was thrown open by none other than Gregory Lestrade—or Detective Inspector Lestrade—with an almost frantic expression plastered on his aging face. John believes Sherlock's psychic sometimes.

Sherlock, whilst slipping on his shoes, said, "Lestrade, how spontaneous of you."

"Good morning to you, Sherlock. Any who, no doubt you've read the news this morning. Two murders in a week, both disappeared without a trace minus small remnants of blood. Well… there's been a third."

"A third?" Both John and Sherlock thought back to the earlier case with the cabbie.

"And the murderer left a _big, bloody mess_," Lestrade said, leaving the last three words linger into John and Sherlock's minds. Lestrade added, "Both of you need to come now. The investigation's been going on for hours." Sherlock's brow arched enquiringly, "Hours?"

Lestrade stomped down the stairs hurriedly. He returned to his car, awaiting them impatiently.

Back in the flat, Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf, calling for John to come with him. John—finally fully clothed—sprinted down the steps from his room, adjusting the collar on his jacket.

Outside, the vehicle was parked. Sherlock opened the door and gestured for John to enter first. After doing so, Sherlock went after him and closed the car's door. Lestrade pushed the accelerator and drove into the street. The sun continued to slightly distort John's vision, but shined warmly through the window onto his exposed hands and face, causing his skin to seem almost sallow.


	2. Sing A Lie, Ghost Of The Night 2 of 1

A/N: OH GOD IT'S A NEW CHAPTER. EVERYBODY BREAK OUT THE BEER.

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><p><em><strong>Oh well the devil makes us sin. But we like it when we're spinning, in his grin.<strong>_

**_-Paradise Circus,_ Massive Attack**

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><p>Sherlock, John, and Lestrade arrived at the old building, parallel parking off the sidewalk. Stepping out the vehicle and heading forward, before them were caution tape, police cars, and investigators working the scene. One of them being Sally Donovan, observing. People were walking back and forth from the entryway, carrying small bags and different sorts of equipment.<p>

Sherlock and John ducked beneath the caution tape and started for the door, until they were halted by Sally's presence. She lifted her head and stared down her nose at the two, Lestrade coming up behind them, and said, "Hello, _Freak_. Doctor." Sherlock glared at her, "Donovan." John only replied with a jerked nod.

John had many words he yearned to say to the woman, but he kept them behind pursed lips. He's getting sick of the _Freak_ title.

"Okay, girls, that's enough," Lestrade broke them up before anything more could be uttered. Sally fidgeted, agitated. Sherlock turned himself to Lestrade, attempting to blow off an accumulating clash. "Sherlock, now I'm warning you. What you're about to see is unlike anything we've called you for. This case is bran-new to us…" Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, but Sherlock responded before he could start up again, "Lestrade, I comprehend what you are trying to explain to me. Cold corpse, gallons of blood. Don't be so nervous." Lestrade looked at him, and placed the hand on his neck into his pants pocket. Him, Sherlock, and John went to the door and entered the building, Sherlock in the lead.

The flats within were cheap, affordable for the working class. The walls were scarlet. Sherlock took off his glove and ran his hand against it… velvety, dusty. The wooden floor was old and stained with age. There were dents and dips and chipping in it, mostly around the doors on each side of the walls, along the edges of each stair. There wasn't an elevator in sight, portraying how old the place was. Every flight they climbed creaked, and every creak echoed ever so slightly in the empty halls. Oddly enough, not many people resided there. Two to three—rarely four—had a room on whatever level. There were only five levels in the building, and the third level contained the room where the corpse lied.

The final room at the end of the hall, just at the right.

Before heading through the corridor, Lestrade said, "A family came back from vacation tonight, who happen to live down this hall. We had to convince them to leave for a while." He held out some items in his hands and said, "Take these. Trust me, you'll need it," and handed them white protective masks he grabbed a little ways away. The three strapped on their masks and kept going.

The entrance to the victim's flat was slightly ajar, but the stench of the body was rancid, almost too strong for a person who's been dead for such a short time. But something within the stench puzzled Sherlock. Besides the putridness, it was… like a chemical odor. Sweet, yet pungent.

Sherlock stopped himself at the door, fingers grasping the handle. He turned to John and Lestrade, giving them a readying glance. Sherlock pulled the door open, and him and his partner froze dead in place.

The smell that traced the air before now blasted them in the face. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had to cover their faces with their sleeves. Even though they wore masks, it still wasn't enough to block the nauseating odor. Lestrade had to strain his throat to speak, "And _this_ is why you needed the masks." Sherlock tied his scarf to where it covered his mask, and John held his jacket collar tight against his. Sherlock looked over the floor.

Spread every foot apart lied a dry blood droplet. He noticed the droplets were going _out_ the door.

The three started farther into the flat, directing themselves to the bedroom. The door was wide open, exposing what was inside.

They paused. John gaped. Sherlock scanned the room, fascinated.

Red smeared the sheets and pooled at the foot of the bed. In that bed was a body, or what was left of one.

The corpse was distorted, torn, and dismantled. The wrists were shredded, the neck and collarbone thick flaps of meat and skin. The corpse was obviously a woman, wearing a shimmering silver dress and stilettoes. Her blue thong hanged off her ankle. Her face was partially gone, but the one glazed amber eye that was left showed the absolute revulsion that forced itself upon her.

"Found her purse scattered on the floor near the bed," Lestrade informed, "It was thrown to the side when she was attacked. Must have just came back home. Found out her name is Susie Bellamy, twenty-four. She's a dancer at the Platinum Lace Club a little ways away."

_Jesus_, Sherlock thought.

The consulting detective straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and circled the bed.

Bruised caramel skin, clean of any other flaw besides a Monroe piercing above her upper lip. Her fatal wounds were torn, like an animal ripped at her flesh.

An animal? Talons or claws?

These wounds definitely weren't from the claws of a domesticated animal. Either that, or this was a very speedy stabbing.

Between her legs was a pool of blood. _Rape._

Within the dried blood were little blotches of black. Black se- no. Just a black sort of liquid. It was produced from the attacker, but that couldn't be his…

Suddenly, Sherlock's thoughts began to churn through the massive hordes of information that he had stored for years and years, and he went quiet.

While Sherlock did this, Lestrade offered John rubber gloves. He gazed as the two worked as a pair.

The army doctor began examining the victim's wounds. Deep lacerations in the face, neck and collarbone, making for a severely severed jugular. Her jaw was cracked in too many places, bits and pieces missing. Bruises appeared around the afflicted areas, but they were so overwhelmed with torn skin, he could barely figure their shape.

John also noticed she looked abnormally slim and too pale. He could see that her blood was smeared all around her, but her shade made him think of someone drained of their blood. Sucked out. Removed completely from their body.

He moved to her lower body, and cautiously lifted her pretty dress.

Everything was unrecognizable. Red mixed with… black… and chunks of meat and flesh was either missing or destroyed completely. He could hardly determine her sex.

This gives an entirely new meaning to brutal rape and murder….

"This isn't a blade's work," Sherlock interrupted the deep silence, "Though if it was, they did a damn well job at making her look like this. This may be—no matter how irrational it sounds—an animal's inflictions. But there's just _no way._ Don't look at me that way!" Lestrade's brow was perked up and his lips were fixed in a thin line. Sherlock continued, "The tears lead in different directions, and the _claws_ must have been long and razor sharp. _Very much_ violently raped, but you just have to look at her. I…" Sherlock huffed, "I honestly cannot explain how she became this way. It's legitimately… a pulp. Pulverized by a meat tenderizer and an icepick. I can't put it in simpler terms."

John looked at him with intensity. It's rare he doesn't know the full solution to something, unless he begins researching for days and nights. He realized that when they get back to 221b, Sherlock's going to be stating possible theories and ranting about how this bird was killed.

But right now, no one could figure how this would have happened, even with collected evidence.

Lestrade spoke, "But if she was raped, and the wounds are from an animal's… wait, that doesn't make sense. It sounds a bit disturbing said that way," He muffled the last sentence through his teeth, childish embarrassment pinching him, eyeing John. He hoped for some sort of response from him, but he was too lost in his thoughts for encouragement.

Sherlock said, "Yes, I know. That's exactly what's confusing me. And, like I said, there's just no possible way. Oh, and besides the wounds… this black. This black liquid here."

He pointed to the end of the bed, where the black mixed with red.

"That's what's giving off this foul stench. It's strongest there." John coughed, trying to breathe through his mask.

"Oh? Well, we attempted to take a sample from it already." Lestrade said.

"Attempted?" Sherlock said at once.

Lestrade bit his bottom lip then continued, "Yeah, we tried to pick it up with anything we could find with us: a Q-tip, tissue, cloth, anything! But when we did, it just… dissolved. It evaporated into a mist, more like it. _Smoke._"

All of them shared glances with each other. _Evaporated?_

"We're assuming the only way it's being kept together is by the blood. Look for yourself. It's eerily still," He added.

Sherlock became entranced with the black liquid, but didn't go near it—even though he had the greatest urge to. Something about the liquid didn't feel right to him, but he couldn't really _explain_ the feeling. What he didn't know was that everyone else in the room felt the same.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his urge, forgot his emotions, and drifted toward it for closer inspection.

Lestrade continued, "Um… that's what we concluded."

"Grab a tube and cotton swab. I'll mix it with the blood and see if it keeps intact that way," Sherlock shot out his open hand in Lestrade's direction.

Lestrade left the room. After a moment, he came back with a little tube and cotton swab, just as Sherlock wanted. He placed them in his palm, and Sherlock leaned over the bloody pool. As quickly and carefully as he could, he dipped the swab into the black liquid and mixed it with blood. He stuck the swab into the tube and popped it closed. Not a drop was lost, nor any black missing.

Sherlock turned back to him, showed Lestrade the tube, and smiled. Lestrade squinted his eyes, irked a bit at the detective's confidence. Lestrade shook his head. He turned to the door, and he and Sherlock began to leave, but John held back, gawking at the victim's body.

What caused this? What could have possibly caused this much damage to a person's body? The torn flesh, the bruises, and all the gallons of blood… What is with that black muck?

Even with knowing how sick the world could be when it wanted, could an actual person _really_ have done this?

"John, come on!"

Sherlock's voice rang out from down the hall. John turned and left.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat at his usual spot in St. Bart's with his chemistry equipment before him, closely examining the victim's blood beneath the microscope, watching the black swirl within it.<p>

Like it has been for the past thirty-odd minutes.

"This black resin will not move. It's just… _there_," Sherlock said, mostly to himself, even though John across the room heard his little comment. John replied, "Still?"

Sherlock gestured him to come and see for himself.

John walked around the table to Sherlock's side, and Sherlock slipped to the edge of his seat so his partner could have room to see for himself. John focused the lenses, narrowing his eyes.

As Sherlock had said, _nothing_. Just the black with the blood, like oil and water.

"An oil-and-water effect… the blackness has a thicker consistency than the blood?" John looked up at Sherlock from the eyepiece. Sherlock inhaled and said, "Oh, yes. I also tried to test the viscosity of the blackness to take that fact further. I took a small drop from it with the dropper—as I did with the blood—and as quickly as I could before the blackness could evaporate, dripped it onto a tilted glass slide. The blood trickled so much faster than the blackness. Like you mentioned… oil. Ooze, should be the correct term."

John looked back into the eyepiece, his mind imagining the scene, and the detective lifted himself off the seat. John claimed it then, but Sherlock didn't notice.

Now that that was discussed, Sherlock looked passed it, so he could delve deeper as to why it was doing such a thing and nothing else.

Sherlock paced beside John, pinching the bridge of his nose in an irritated manner. John kept staring through the eyepiece, absorbed.

"She met a man," Sherlock began, "A man at the Platinum Lace. He must have been charismatic, smooth, charming enough for her to see pass his wickedness. Probably danced for him. She took him home afterwards to expect a one-night stand. She was single and lonely. Besides her lonesome, she brought in strays for flings. Unfortunately, this one brutally kills her. Rapes her. Violates her. But… this wasn't the first time it's happened." John licked his lips to dampen the dried skin there from breathing through his mouth, hanging slightly open with distaste from these facts. He said, "She was raped before?"

"I believe whenever she was younger. As a young girl. Either by a family member, or someone thought to be close," Sherlock leaned himself against the table, touching his fingers together beneath his chin in his traditional superior pose.

His cell chimed. A text.

Sherlock fished it from his pocket and saw it was from Lestrade.

The body is GONE

GL

But they just came back from the scene…

"What? What is it?" John stood up from his seat, noticing Sherlock freezing in place. Sherlock's eyes turned to him, and he spoke, "We need to go back to the investigation."

"Already? What happened?" John darted after Sherlock, who was already out the door and heading for the exit. "The body. It's gone," Sherlock pushed it open and jogged to the street, signaling for a cab. The nearest one caught their signal, and Sherlock and John jumped in.

Slimy blackness, blood, torn skin and muscle, broken bones… And now a missing body? So _quickly?_

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John met Lestrade back in the victim's bedroom, and behind him was an empty stained bed… and blood and black smearing the floors, around the corner of the door, ending at the open kitchen window above the sink.<p>

"Everyone left for a minute to get the damn gurney. No one else was in the room when we were gone, besides some in the lower floors!" Lestrade was almost in a panic trying to make everything seem as close to rational as he could get… which was beginning to be quite impossible. Sally was peaking over the bloody window seal, trying her hardest not to touch it, as though spying on the other investigators who were frantically searching for the corpse, even though there was no way it could have gone.

Sherlock bent over the smearing on the floor, examining its texture. Still damp, still rancid, but the stench was much less dense than it was the last time they were there. Sherlock, still hunched over, followed the red and black lines up and over the window sill. Sally lifted her arms and backed off when his shoulder brushed her elbow when he got up. There was some even painted on the windowpane… in the jagged shapes of a couple fingers and a thumb. He poked his head through to observe the ground below.

No blood or black whatsoever.

"What…" Sherlock breathed. Without any warning, he darted down the hall and down the stairs, every stomp cracking through the dreary building. Out the door and around the corner to the alley, John and Lestrade behind him panting, the investigators eyed his presence. One woman was about to open her mouth, but Sherlock walked past her like she was just another pebble on the ground. He touched the walls, smelled the air, examined every nook and cranny. But there was nothing but everyday grit and grind. Nothing.

Sherlock turned on Lestrade, "Approximately how long were you gone?" He rubbed the side of his face and exhaled, "A few minutes. Three or four."

"And there was no one in that room? No one but the corpse? But there were fingerprints on the window… but the corpse couldn't have… but the window opened… but it dropped, but it didn't… but it's a corpse… _What the hell is going on?_" Sherlock bit his bottom lip, his eyes searching, piercing into the cement like the answer to the problem would be hidden within.

Everyone turned their heads, curiosity and postulation crossing every face.

"It's… I…" Sherlock mumbled.

Lestrade coughed, breaking the thinning ice, and said, "Sherlock, we're going to keep searching for the body. I want you to find out more about the victim and report as much as you can back to me." Sherlock thought for a moment, chewing on his lip now, then replied, "Yeah. Yeah, right. Okay, John. We're going to the Platinum Lace tonight."

"Oh! And I almost forgot to mention," Lestrade took a photo out of his pocket, "We found a picture of a woman with her number written on the back in her purse. Centra Blithe's her name. It had 'BFF' and a heart above the number, too. They were close. She also works at the Platinum Lace. When you see her, _if_ she's even there, she's going to know about her friend's death. We copied the number, and someone's going to call before tonight. Try not to push her friend's death on her, okay? Just ask questions about their friendship and what happened that night."

Sherlock took the picture and stuck it in his coat.

Lestrade mumbled to himself while walking around the corner of the building, "And everything I said for him _not_ to do, he's going to do."

* * *

><p>The day sped by with brooding anticipation.<p>

John and Sherlock stood directly outside the Platinum Lace, whose doors of the entrance swung back and forth from all the customers entering and exiting, foaming at the mouth in heat. Tonight, the male sex dominated the place. Sherlock scowled.

"Ugh," He hissed. John twisted his mouth, trying his best not to snicker at Sherlock's resentment.

The pair strode in.

The place was close to a full house. Music booming, men drooling… the usual layout for a club reeking of the sex industry.

Sherlock scanned the contents of the wide room, purple splashing out from everything. John rubbed his eyes, adjusting them to the sudden change in color scheme from the dark blue hues outside. People began to sit down at their table, sipping their glasses and lowering their voices to murmurs, and the lights dimmed and focused to the stages at either side of the place. A host came up to them and directed them to an open table. They sat and waited for whatever was going to happen next.

Two women strutted onto each stage, dressed very loosely. One of the women was just the person they were looking for. A blonde bombshell, luscious red lips, and bright eyes… Centra Blithe.

Sherlock locked his probing eyes on her, studying her. John was whipping his head back and forth, getting a full look at Centra and the other woman. Once the music began, both women were twisting and twirling, graciously dancing on the silver poles. Very faintly you could hear the shrilling of skin sliding against metal.

The music trailed off, and the delicious women walked off stage, applause and calls of praise following them. "Let's go to the bar. Gives us a better view," Sherlock whispered aside to John. Up and around the small stairs they went, and found themselves a couple of empty seats near the bartender.

"Good evening, gentlemen! Would you like a drink?" The bartender offered politely. He was American, and his voice was a bit light for a muscular full-grown male. "Oh! I'd like a pint, please," John thought to might as well have a bit of fun while they were here. He turned to Sherlock, "Sherlock, would you want… any…" He was looking around the room, completely unaware of the current situation. John waved his hand at Sherlock and said, "Um, never mind him. I'll just… yeah." The bartender went off to make his pint.

"There, John," Sherlock spoke out of nowhere after a quiet moment between the two. "Who? The Centra girl?" John sips his fresh pint the bartender slapped on the table. Sherlock jabs his finger in the direction of the round tables. Standing in the midst of them was Centra herself. She was down, her mouth fixed in a frown, though when someone passed, she faked a smile. "She'll make her round here. Give her a moment," John said, lowering his voice just below the level of the giddy banter all around. Sherlock was quite aware of this, but acknowledged John's own awareness. Centra, in her shining red heels that matched her lips, glided to the bar. Even though she looked so sullen, she kept her grace.

She greeted a man at the end of the bar, engaging in small talk with him. Sherlock had his chance to probe her more thoroughly. John gazed intently at Sherlock, his friend's head turned the opposite way. _His hair looks extra fluffy tonight,_ John thought, _and his coat's a bit… pressed._ John rubbed his hand over his face, _God, this beer may be getting to me already. I'm trying to deduce like him._ John took a gulp of his beer anyway. It tasted way too good this evening.

Sherlock turned away from Centra, towards John. He exhaled, and his usual scowling face lifted, lightening into a softer expression. Oh, god. John knew this little mask of his. "Hello," Centra appeared behind the doctor and detective. They looked up at her, John smiling like an idiot, and Sherlock grinning as politely as he could. "Hello, love," Sherlock replied, his voice seemingly suave. John continued to sip his half-empty glass, rolling his eyes out the sight of the girl. "How are you men tonight? Enjoying the show?" Centra traced a finger over her temple, pushing back a lock of blonde. Her eyes were glittering blue, but sunken and bloodshot. Sherlock immediately figured she got the call. The call that no one wants to hear.

"The show was beautiful. You, especially. Dazzling," Sherlock gazed at her dreamily, his head tilted onto his shoulder. John pondered whether he was trying to act drunk, or just really stupefied by her curves. Centra arched her brow, her cheeks tickled pink behind the makeup, "Oh, _really?_ I mean… thank you. No one really… says that when I talk to them here." _Susie's better,_ Sherlock assumed. He continued being slick, "You know, I would love to see more of that show, if you wouldn't mind…" John spat is beer into his glass. He slowly looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, flabbergasted as all hell. The mere thought of Sherlock getting a lap dance was laughable… and awkward.

Centra's mouth was stuck in a ditzy grin, her eyes swimming in Sherlock's gaze. Already this man is tall, dark, and gorgeous beyond compare. But the fact he actually wants _her_ to give _him_ a dance was difficult to process. She mentally shook herself out of her pooling questions and said, "Yes, of course," almost like a robot responding to a command. Sherlock lifted himself off his seat and took off his coat. "John, watch this for me," Sherlock threw his coat on John's lap, him jumping from the coat's sudden impact. Before he could retort, the detective offered his hand to Centra. She took hold of it, still gaping at him.

She lead the way to the back rooms.

* * *

><p>"Okay, you just have a seat right there and relax. I'll do the work," Centra purred. Sherlock's grin slowly began to fall. It's time to start the interrogation.<p>

Sherlock said, "Before we get to business, don't you want to talk? You are rushing this." Centra looked at the lounging man, her brow crinkled. "Well, this is usually how I roll. I take the person in, get them comfortable, then I dance," she told him. "_Well,_ maybe talking gets me comfortable," Sherlock said. Her voice got stuck in her throat, but after a couple seconds she said, "O-Okay. I can do that. Anything to make the customer feel peaceful." She sat next to him, close enough to feel his body warmth, which meant she was sort of too close. Like said before, this man is gorgeous. She grew clumsy in front of people like this. "I guess I should properly greet myself first. I, um… I'm Centra. Centra Blithe," She fidgeted in her seat, but kept a decent smile. Sherlock said, "I'm a detective. Consulting detective."

"Wha-… Consulting?" Centra felt a sudden urge to run.

"Basically, I'm going to interrogate you. And I would stay here unless you want to get fired."

Centra heard her boss's voice trailing off outside. He was walking with someone, speaking to them just around the corner. Centra gaped at the detective, trying her best to blink the emerging tears out of her eyes.

"First, I know you are Susie's best friend. You know her secrets, her desires. I know she worked with you. I know she was better than you, though your anxiety and stance gives it away. You already know she's dead. Your eyes are bloodshot from crying, but for some reason you can't leave. Like I said, you'll be fired. Plus, you saw her murderer. You saw her run off with him, but you expected him to be another one of her strays…"

"Are you blaming me for her murder?" She choked through her sobs, her hands covering her face. Sherlock sighed, "I'm not blaming you. I'm only telling you what I've… learned. I want to learn more, that's why I'm here. Explain to me how you know Susie. What was she like? Who was she, exactly?"

Centra took a few shaky breaths, trying to steady herself, and began, "Before I tell you about her, I'll get fired because my boss is a prick. I got the call on my cell when I got here. I told him about her death, and he still won't let me go. I can't fight him back about it, so I just gave in," she wiped the back of her hand across her nose. "Susie was the only real friend I had. Both of us had similar lives. We lived poorly, in homes full of violence and hate. I didn't have it as bad as her though. Her father was… sick. She told me he would do these disgusting ritual-like things, she said like _Sybil_ or something. He'd also _touch_ her, if you know what I mean," she shivered, and continued, "Apparently he stopped when she was thirteen, only because he was finally taken into custody. Any who, we met when we were eighteen. We grew close immediately. It was wonderful. We always went out together. We would go clubbing, drinking, have a smoke afterward. I admit, we were bad. Though, all the boys went for her. I would just hang back. She enjoyed the attention from other people. It made up for the loneliness when she was young, and it kept her sane. It was like… therapy, or… treatment for her. Medicine, I guess?"

Centra bowed her head, two tear drops hitting her lap. Sherlock kept his posture straight, soaking everything in. So Susie was tortured as a child, raped and manhandled like a ragdoll, just as she was in the bedroom. But her abuse occurred years and years ago. There could be a strange possibility that they were connected… but how?

"You say you want the identity of the murderer," Centra said behind her hair. Sherlock glimpsed at her with interest.

"All I saw of him was a black suit, pale hands, soft jet black hair. Only Susie knows what he looks like from the front." Centra closed her eyes, thinking, then said, "I think I remember hearing his name. He was a VIP, very rich. The host mentioned it. It started with an M, but I don't remember it fully…"

"An M?" Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"Yes, an M. That's all I know. You'll have to ask the host for the full name," Centra concluded.

Sherlock stood up, adrenaline pulsing though his veins, Centra following the action. This better not be who he thinks it is. Before running out, he almost forgot Centra. He said, "Er, thank you for your cooperation; I have all the information I need. Goodbye!" Sherlock ran out the room toward the host near the front doors. John from the bar saw him running to the front, and he quickly stuffed a tip beneath his empty glass for the bartender. He slid off his seat and jogged to his partner who was now next to the host, Sherlock's coat hanging off his arm.

Sherlock skidded to a halt, luckily to not collide with the host. He frantically started, "Who were the last VIPs to come here?" The host scrutinized Sherlock and said, "Sir, who are you?" Sherlock started to raise his voice, "Tell me now." People around him began to scrutinize him also. "Look, just tell me the VIPs, okay? I need to kn-"

"Hey, who the hell do you think you are?"

A bald, hefty man in a black tux interrupted them. Sherlock looked at Centra. This was her boss.

Sherlock glanced at the man, then back to the host. He erased him from his attention. "I need to know the last VIPs that were here," Sherlock struggled to control the eagerness swelling up in him. The host opened the schedule on his simple wooden podium before him, and ran his finger down a page. The host was about to give Sherlock his answer, but Centra's boss spoke first, angered, "Don't you answer, damn it, or you're…"

Sherlock broke him off, his voice louder and demanding, "Give me the name!"

"Moriarty!" The host was almost shaken.

Sherlock's eyes were unblinking, and his jaw clenched. John behind him stood as still as Sherlock, looking up at his friend.

The same name. The same one the cabbie screamed with his dying breath. His name sent small waves of coolness up Sherlock's spine.

"I want you out of this club right now, you hear me you twat? You're disturbing the customers and the employers," the large bald man growled. Sherlock turned on him at once and started, "You are the one disturbing everyone, _sir._ Your poor hygiene and sexism reeks off you. Your apparent history in the sex industry speaks loud and clear. Now, you will let Centra go. Her friend is dead and she needs privacy. And if you _don't_ let her go, I'll make sure you're fired and you never get another job in your _life._"

Suddenly, the man's attempt at intimidation fell rapidly. He was taken aback by Sherlock's words, startled at how the hell he knew these things.

He turned to Centra, his eyes staring intently at her shoes and the floor. He grumbled, "You get the week off. Go."

Centra straightened up in surprise. She held in her yelp of happiness and relief, and mouthed to Sherlock _thank you._ She scampered to the back of the club.

Her boss glared up at Sherlock, him returning the look.

Without another word, John and Sherlock left the building without a glance.

* * *

><p>"Moriarty? The same man that cabbie worked for?" John asked. He paced the living room of his and Sherlock's flat, memories of the incident coursing his mind.<p>

"Yes, I'm sure of it," Sherlock replied, standing near the fireplace. He was twiddling with his cell phone, as in a way to sooth his stress. Beforehand, he called Lestrade and told him of his meeting with Centra. He even mentioned Moriarty. Lestrade promised information on the other cases first thing tomorrow.

"Wait. This Moriarty hires other people to do his dirty work. Wouldn't he be in _hiding?_" John said. Sherlock continued to twiddle and said, "Exactly. Instead, he blatantly slaps his name on the VIP list. John, I know this man is highly interested in me. Maybe he's finally directly leading me to him. But he's making it too damn easy."

"And _if_ he is the murderer, him brutally killing that woman—along with the other two cases—he's basically screaming, 'Hey, I'm right here! I obviously killed all these people! Come at me!'" John flailed his hands to exaggerate his example of Moriarty's schemes. Sherlock threw his cell onto his chair and ruffled his hair.

Sherlock squinted his eyes and said, "Wait, the other two cases?"

John looked around the room. "You… didn't forget about the other two cases, did you? Lestrade just reminded-"

"Oh. Oh! God. The other cases. God, what is wrong with me today?" He slid his cellphone off the chair, it making a soft thump on the floor, and plopped himself into it. John joined him by sitting in his own. Sherlock said, "Um… okay, that man. He fell into the water, and then disappeared. He more than likely suffered a concussion first, and then drowned before ever disappearing—that being said because of the blood stain on the edge of that rock. So he's dead. The girl also disappeared, but... how could she have died? _Did_ she die?"

John leaned into his chair, absorbing its cool material, and said, "It was never mentioned. You read that they were gone and that was about it. No bodies were found, so they're just assuming they're missing. Even the supposed drowned one."

Sherlock continued, "Hmm… maybe she was injured when she disappeared, or maybe she was injured _whilst_ being captured. Meaning the captor incapacitated her so she wouldn't have a chance to escape." He inhaled sharply, bringing his fingers up to his lips and holding them in that notorious little pose. He said, "I think we should carry on this case tomorrow. The little girl is the most interesting, along with that eerie missing corpse. Tea?" Sherlock left his chair to the kitchen.

John, watching Sherlock waltz into the kitchen, said with a grimace, "Are you blowing off the missing corpse?"

"John, maybe if we find the little girl first, then we may just find the corpse. Because maybe if she's dead, she'll lead us closer to the other death. And if she's still alive, we'll be able to find Moriarty even faster. _If_ it truly is Moriarty."

"But Sherlock, the cor-… Are you all right? You've been… strange." A strand of concern crossed his tone.

Sherlock walked back to John and stood awfully close to the arm of his chair, where John's arm was… where John's head was leaning. He slightly shifted back, but not enough to rid the scent of Sherlock around him. He looked up at him, and Sherlock's face was blank. Not an angry or upset sort of blank, just… blank. Sherlock finally said, "Define strange."

John tried his best to define this strangeness, "Okay. Firstly, you almost freaked out completely when that women's body disappeared, and I _know_ even at something like that that you wouldn't _be_ freaked out. Secondly, you terrified that host at the Platinum Lace by screaming in his face. And now, I just had to remind you of the other cases related to the recent one. You _rarely_ forget things that important. _And_ you just now find the situation with the girl so much more important than the missing corpse that just seemed to have _dragged itself across the flat and flew out the window._ Look, I'm sorry. I know they seem like tiny little things, it's just…"

Sherlock interrupted, "John, it's just the adrenaline rush I'm getting out of this. I'm sure. It's just everything is rushing awfully fast and tightly intertwining with each other lately. I believe figuring out the little things first will bring us to figuring out the bigger picture quicker than just jumping to these irrational conclusions. I haven't had a case like this for… no, I've never had a case like this. Don't be concerned of me."

John fidgeted with a loose string on a rivet on the arm of his chair and said, "_Are_ you sure?"

"When am I ever not?" Sherlock ended his consolation with a smirk.

Sherlock went back to the kitchen to make tea for him and John. John still thought there was something up, because Sherlock was never really so… morally reasonable. He tried to believe it really just was an adrenaline rush. He then remembered Sherlock making tea.

"You're going to make the tea, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice cracking with a chuckle, "You remember what happened last time when you did? You destroyed the kettle and almost set the place on fire!"

Sherlock replied, "Ah, don't worry. I bought a new one," and he pulled out a shiny new kettle out the cabinet.

John found it difficult to control his cackling, even with his fist over his mouth.

* * *

><p>A figure in a black suit and trench coat sat alone on the roof top of an empty business building, kicking his legs back and forth off the ledge like a child. The wind grew colder and the sky flooded with stars. He lifted his head, closed his pale eyes, and breathed in the night wind. His lungs were ragged. It was almost time to feed again. But he wanted to wait this time for the right person; for the perfect target at his most vulnerable. He plans for later. Right now, though, he just wanted to play.<p> 


	3. Sing A Lie, Ghost Of The Night 3 of 1

A/N: Things are finally starting to heat up a little bit. I was fangirling over this entire chapter, by the way. Sorry for such the long hiatus. Maybe the next part will come faster.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Through the dark streets they go searching to see God in their own way. Save the night time for your weeping, your weeping.<strong>_

_**-Cemeteries Of London, **_**Coldplay**

* * *

><p>"<em>Dammit! I can't do this anymore!" The other man let out a sobbing scream. Before John could say another word to his fellow soldier, blood spewed out of the man's hip and a bullet hit the ground, a ball of dust emerging from the impact. John's eyes became wild…<em>

_ When his comrade fell forward, his body didn't make a sound. His decent was dreamlike, an unrealistic slowness. John noticed the bullet completely missed its aim. Upon the man's body, his eyes caught sight of a figure dark as night, and its inhuman talons were buried deep into his comrade's hip. The humanoid creature was blurred like smeared paint, and had no expression, or anything on its face to give expression. It only growled, and it's growling consumed all other sounds around John. This silhouette of a thing filled John to the brim with unexplainable fear and hopelessness. Its victim's skin turned colorless, and his blood pooled._

"Fuck!" John yelped when he jolted up straight in his bed. He found himself drenched in a cold sweat and gasping heavily. He pulled himself back under control, breathing evenly. He's never had a dream like that in his life, unless he was counting the night terrors from his childhood.

_What the hell was that?_

He was probably just thinking too hard about his and Sherlock's case and it made his reoccurring war dreams slip a little too out of control this time.

_Yeah, that was all._

He rubbed his arms to settle his goose pimples, sighed, and went for a revitalizing shower.

* * *

><p>John was about done washing his hair, when suddenly…<p>

"Morning, John!"

"WHAT THE-, " John almost slipped in the bathtub when Sherlock busted through the door. John frantically grabbed the shower curtain and held it up to his collarbone, even though Sherlock didn't see anything exposed. John gawped at his intruder and yelled, "YOU COULD'VE JUST KNOCKED! Wait… th-that was locked!"

"I lock picked it!" Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror and used his fingers to brush the bangs off his brow. John turned red when he noticed that Sherlock was fully clothed, besides his scarf. "Lock… picked?" John glared at Sherlock's reflection.

"We're going for a walk today, John," Sherlock said. "At Brompton Cemetery, I presume?" John's tone was seemingly exasperated through clinched teeth. Sherlock looked at John through his reflection and snickered, "Good deducing. It'll be _romantic,_ don't worry."

"Romantic?" John squint his eyes.

"That was a joke. You take things so seriously," Sherlock aimed for the door and grabbed the handle. He turned back and said, "Hurry or we'll miss our cab."

When he shut the door, the chilling air from John's bedroom bellowed in and froze the naked man half to death. He dropped the shower curtain and hurriedly leaned beneath the pouring shower head.

"I don't feel like wearing my scarf today," Sherlock muttered to himself, and left his scarf hanging off the rack near the door.

He and John went down stairs to the cab, when Mrs. Hudson appeared from her door. "Good morning, boys! Another exciting case, I see!" She said with her usual giddiness. John smiled at her and Sherlock smiled, too, welcoming her motherly sweetness. The detective replied, "Oh yes, Mrs. Hudson. Best one yet!" Sherlock pushed out the door, and there the cab waited.

* * *

><p>"Anything on the other victims, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked through his cellphone. John was dreamily gazing out the window of the seat next to him. They were less than halfway to Brompton Cemetery. "Good news and bad news. The bad news is no, and it's going insane here from the lack of information. We keep searching and there's nothing. Before I tell you the good news, you said you're heading to Brompton, right?"<p>

"Yes, we're nearly there," Sherlock said.

"Great, because there's been sightings—oddly enough—of a small girl," Lestrade informed.

Sherlock's eyebrows perked up at this. He said with curiosity, "Really?" "Yeah," Lestrade continued, "quite a few sightings, actually. People walking pass the gates, mostly at night or on cloudy days, claimed to have seen a little girl running about the tombs. Some said it was a trick of the eye, others confidently said it was a ghost." Sherlock chuckled at the thought of a ghost. Usually such things were just illusions, the mind playing tricks on the person. Well, it was looking like it was going to blizzard real soon. Maybe he and John will have a chance at capturing this _ghost._ "Well, Lestrade, we're going to start the search now."

"Alright, be careful."

The cab parked outside the cemetery's North gate. Sherlock asked, "'Be careful?' Why do you say that?" Lestrade replied, his voice low, "Sherlock, shouldn't this be a bit troubling enough, especially now that body is missing? You'll be lucky to find the kid in one piece. Also, the cemetery's been very vacant ever since her disappearance." There was a pause. He went on echoing, "_Be careful,_" and hung up. Sherlock looked puzzlingly at his phone for second. He shook his head and shoved it into his coat.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped out the door with John following. Both men stood before the large archway. The cabbie drove off and left them alone.

The graying clouds ahead made the cemetery spookier than usual. Though, when is a cemetery ever _not_ spooky? John and Sherlock glanced at each other and back at the gate. Sherlock took a breath and gestured for John to enter first. He did, and when the taller man came through the wind howled through the opening behind them, like a song of mourning. And that was when the ambiance of the place really settled in.

Whatever that was left of the sun beamed onto trees that grew between tombstones, and left moving shadows on the grass and dark pavement that formed a long, empty path. There weren't too many people here this morning. In fact, it was an old couple just leaving. John thought if it were the apparitions that crept through the shadows that scared everyone away on days like these. Though, like always, he was thinking too much. He never thought himself as superstitious, but he'd sworn to have seen someone dark standing in the hallways of his childhood home once or twice. Superstitious or not, cemeteries always gave him chills. The fact he was close to being buried in one chilled him even more.

Now that they were a little farther away from city life made winter more noticeable. The pavement was slick, and the brown grass was sprinkled with white snow. All the tombstones were also layered with snow, which made them pretty in a decrepit sort of way. After the howling wind, a breeze crawled through and cooled Sherlock and John's backs. A shiver raced up Sherlock's spine, which John caught sight of in time. They walked slowly, taking in the scene around them. A small flock of ravens flew by, cawing madly. Some were perched at the very top of brittle tree limbs, glaring down at the two shadily from above.

"I always thought cemeteries had an estranged beauty about them. It's not really what someone would find beautiful, but I do, oddly enough. When a person dies, they're permanently gone. But then their loved ones go on decorating their husks with stone or marble slabs and flowers, memorials. It's odd, but it sure lightens up the place," Sherlock said, gesturing to their surroundings. John wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or speaking directly to him, or if he was being entirely sarcastic. He kept quiet, but Sherlock continued, "I don't expect a lively burial when I die. I don't think I would really care."

John looked up at Sherlock, his brow furrowed. Sherlock isn't one for this sort of talk, since when they do talk it's all revolving around his work. But John thought anyway that maybe he was only doing this to pass the time; trying to be like John and be a little philosophical for once. John responded to him anyway, "I don't… really like thinking about those things really, but for you… I think you would. You've helped many people, Sherlock. You may not notice, but people do like you. You're very…" He didn't want to say _amazing_ or _fantastic._ It's going to seem a little too weird if he says it again in this conversation. Instead he added, "Impressive."

Sherlock snorted, "Everyone knows I'm impressive. That doesn't mean they like me."

John wanted to say _But I like you…_ but again, a little too weird.

"Plus, who would like _me?_ I'll just be one of the lonesome tombstones behind a tree somewhere in the back."

John winced. He really thinks himself so lowly? He's always so proud of himself with his skills and abilities, with the Science of Deduction and all that jazz…

"If anything were to ever happen, you know I'd be there. You know that."

Sherlock stared at the damp pavement, listening intently to his footsteps. The silence ended their chat.

They continued to stroll, until Sherlock flung up his arm in front of John. He stumbled back, disgruntled. "Stop," Sherlock said. John twisted his head side to side searching for what made Sherlock pause so abruptly.

"Did you see that? Out the corner of your eye on your left, did you see it?"

"What, what did you see?"

"A silhouette. It was- Look, there!" Sherlock jabbed his finger in the direction of a tomb in the shape of a large cross, besides the fact that there were many other ones like it, big and small. "Come on!"

They ran to the particular tombstone, attempting to not trip over others and overgrown tree roots. They slowed to a jog and finally stopped… yet whatever it was wasn't in sight.

Sherlock and John searched behind nearby tombs, trees, even up in their branches. Nothing at all… "Sherlock!" John shouted.

Meters away from them, the sound of scurrying footsteps through dry grass started up and back towards the pavement. Sherlock and John pushed themselves over the tombs and roots and ran for the main trail. Once there they skidded to a halt, but there was no use going on because whoever it was disappeared. However, when they glanced up after taking a few gulps of air, there the little shadow was again.

Instead it solidly was, and stood amidst the entrance to the Great Circle, motionless, almost tauntingly. Its long strands of hair whisked and rolled along the soft breeze as it faced the two men who were staring at it. The shadows over its barely visible eyes made it doubtful if it was staring back. It turned on its heel into the Great Circle and disappeared.

The frantic pair darted up the pathway to the other side. The tombs at this part of the cemetery were more spaced, and were somewhat more orderly than the others. Not too many trees were present besides the ones that ringed around the Circle like a natural shield. The two men glanced at each other, a signal to separate, and each went the opposite direction. On either side, both searched among the crosses carefully, eyeing for any footprints or other sorts of evidence. Sherlock peeked through the trees farther off, assuming if it were the little girl, she would've hidden somewhere tight and not very curious to onlookers. Of course, there wasn't anything there besides the trees themselves. Sherlock made a vexed grunt. John sighed out of frustration for the same reason, but was nearer to the columns that held the outside hallways. He had sifted through the trees on his side with no success. As he slowed his pace and steadied his anxious heart, he thought again why there was no one here. There was legitimately _no one._ As he thoughtfully scratched the back of his scalp, he moved to the hallway with a stable stride. He lost view of Sherlock when he passed the first column. He must be thoroughly searching the other side a little too intently.

John continued on, until a thump of something hit the ground in the distance, but was loud enough to be heard from where he was standing. It came from around the curve of the other half of the hallway, after a gap. He froze, catching his breath, and strained his ears to hear something more. All that he picked up from his concentration was the swallowing silence. Other natural sounds—the slight rustling of trees, the whistling wind through the columns and nearby tombstones—were all there was. The silence, overall, was bone chilling, adding to the darkening sky—which was much darker now—and the now falling snowflakes.

John nearly forgot he needed to breathe, and sucked in all the air he could, feeling a pressure build in his head. He focused at the ground, smoothing his pace. He gradually drew further. Nearly at the edge approaching the gap, he noticed small blotches of fresh red scattered on the stone, leading forward to the other half. John's spine straightened, and his hand immediately went for his gun. He always carried his gun everywhere he went, for protection… or maybe out of paranoia.

He pulled it out, cocked it, and outstretched his arms in the readied position. His palms were damp. Even steadier than before he carefully passed the gap, and went into the other half of the hallway.

The blood on the ground was obviously fresh and growing thicker every few feet. Even the sounds of _squishing and crunching_ became audible. The way the sickening sounds were patterned seemed like something was eating. Maybe a carnivorous animal was residing here. But why here in the public eye? No, why in the city? He passed the final column…

Squatted on the ground was a girl.

A small strawberry blonde girl wearing a torn beanie, dressed in a stained purple jacket and jeans. A shoe was missing from her right foot, exposing a dirty pink sock. John lowered is gun a couple inches, eyes wide. He then saw two ravens, their bellies completely eaten out, sprawled around the girl. He retraced the blood trail in his mind, leading up to the child. The crunching sounds were escaping from her mouth. He took one more step to try at get a better look.

Bad, bad move.

Her chewing stopped. She dropped the thing that was in her hands—another dead raven. She stood up, her back to John. The army doctor was like a statue. He lowered his gun closer to his chest. He would never raise a hand—especially a weapon—to a child in any situation. That would be insane.

She turned around.

Blood tarnished her whole front, and little chunks of flesh and feathers were stuck around her mouth. She was looking at the ground, a deadpan expression on her pallid face. John then noticed something even more peculiar about her. She was… smoking or steaming. It was purely black and thin, and it gave off a stifling heat. John couldn't process it.

The little girl lifted her eyes to him, and John backed into the wall. Her eyes were filmed over like cataracts besides the tiny feral pupil in the middle. Very weakly he could tell her eyes were blue before. They may have been undoubtedly beautiful and shining.

Her mouth gaped.

Two extraordinarily sharp rows of teeth emerged, longer than a human's, her gums hardly visible. An awful screech escaped her throat. Any remaining thoughts disappeared from John and were swiftly replaced with terror.

Before he could make a move, before he could raise his gun, the girl attacked.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was just picking up a stray pom-pom off the grass when he hears an animalistic scream followed by loud cry.<p>

"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!"

It was John. His calls were hysterical. Sherlock stuffed the cotton ball into his pocket. He turned to the sounds and bolted. In a blink he met up with his friend… who was toppled over on the stone ground, kicking about and trying to hold back what looked like a child on top of him. He also saw blood and devoured ravens strewn around. The child was swinging at his face with bloodied hand, and making growling and snarling noises.

"John? Wha-"

"GET HER OFF ME! SHE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He grabbed the ravenous child by the shoulders and threw her off of him. When she hit the ground, she tumbled, and collided with a column.

Sherlock pulled him up, and immediately he was pulling the detective by the sleeve, trying to run away. "John! Stop! " Sherlock tried drawing back. He desperately wanted to see her, examine her maybe, and see what was wrong with his own eyes.

"The girl, she's some sort of… thing! She is not hu-"

The girl leapt at Sherlock, knocking him down.

"AUGH!" Sherlock, after struggling to move his arms out of the girl's inhuman grip, ringed his hands around the girl's neck and held her far enough away from him to take a quick scan of her...

_Blood all over her and bits of meat and feathers around her mouth; recently ate like an animal. Ashen skin; hasn't seen the sun in weeks. Hair is greasy and messy. She reeks of death and decay. Her eyes are white… her body temperature is way above normal… her teeth are sharp and her nails are tiny claws… she's smoking…_

_Black smoke._

Sherlock's eyes enlarged as he ogled into the girl's monstrous ones, and he saw nothing but bloodlust and hunger. There was no humanity left in her.

"SHERLOCK! LET GO!"

Sherlock fell back into reality. He loosened his grip, and John grabbed the girl by her strawberry blonde hair and jacket. He managed to rip her off him in one jerk, and he slammed her fragile head against the stone wall. Her snarling hushed, and she fell to the ground with a thump that echoed through the hallway. Black blood began to pour out of her ears and nostrils, and the black smoke vanished.

John ran to Sherlock side, and he lifted him off the ground.

Sherlock looked at John's face and gasped, "John, your cheeks!" John touched at the sides of his face, and they stung. He eyed the pads of his fingers, which were stained with his blood. The girl must have gotten him quite a bit. Without warning, Sherlock reached out and brushed away a drop of blood that trickled down his jaw with his gloved thumb. John watched as his hand fell back to his side. He decided to not question the gesture, but he appreciated his concern. They stood there, breathless, for what felt like minutes. Sherlock finally spoke up, his voice low, "We have to go."

His doctor looked up at him, his mouth hanging open slightly, searching for something to say. Nothing would come up. Words were stuck in his throat.

"I'll text Lestrade to come here with the police and an ambulance. You and I are leaving."

"Where?" His mind was still scrambled from what just happened.

Sherlock said, "We're taking a cab back to the flat. Come on." He took out his phone, texting Lestrade. John glanced at the body and back at Sherlock, then said, "But Sherlock-"

"Lestrade will see us later and we'll all explain it then. Now, _come on,_" Sherlock rushed out the hallway. John faltered, lost in thought. He finally followed after his friend, both running to the North gate. John called a cab, and within minutes a cab appeared before them, and it took them home.

* * *

><p>The pair ran up the stairs to their flat, John in the lead, and once in the room Sherlock shut the door behind them. He leaned against it, releasing a massive ball of air from his lungs. He rubbed his face with both of his hands, before he realized they were both still gloved. He straightened up and took them off, throwing them to the side, not caring where they landed. He then shrugged off his coat, letting it hit the floor. He took a few steps forward. He planned to turn to the kitchen to make some tea, but before he could, he noticed John was frozen solid in the middle of the room, his back facing him.<p>

Sherlock eyed him more closely, and saw that he was trembling.

His head was hung low, and his arms were locked at his sides. He hasn't bothered to take off his jacket yet, or say a word.

"John?" Sherlock whispered. No movement. Sherlock slowly walked up to him. He stopped a couple feet away and repeated, "John?"

"I killed a child," His voice was shaking.

He turned to Sherlock. The detective saw something he never thought he would ever see.

John was crying.

John only just started crying, for his face wasn't flushed or his eyes bloodshot enough. He looked scared and broken all at once. He started again, "Sherlock. I. Killed. _A child._"

Sherlock couldn't find anything to say. He wasn't someone to console another. But this was John…

"I'm a soldier, Sherlock. I _have_ killed people. But not children, no. Not people whose lives haven't even started yet. And I just… killed…"

John let out a sob. _My god,_ Sherlock thought. He wavered, but placed his hands on his broken friend's shoulders. He was never weak like this.

Sherlock tried his best, "I… I don't know what to say, really. John… you may try to argue, but that wasn't a girl. That… I don't know what that was. She was not human and she tried to kill you. And, even though it sounds stupid, she seemed like she tried to _eat_ you. Feel happy that you're not dead right now, and that I came to rip that thing off you. That girl was dead already. You… You…" He sighed, "You put her out of her misery."

John looked up at him, eyes shining with tears.

"Oh, god, that was stupid of me to say. I'm sorry. God, god…"

"No. I feel better," John then smiled at him, "Really."

Sherlock's brow lifted in surprise, "O-Oh. Okay. So… you're okay now?"

"Well, sort of. I just need some tea. Really badly."

Sherlock smiled back and said, "I'll make some. No, wait. First, you need to clean the cuts on your face."

As Sherlock ran to the bathroom to grab some hydrogen peroxide and Q-tips, John plopped himself onto the couch and sagged into the cushions, sighing. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His mind raced through the day, through the cemetery, and stuck on the little girl's dead body. Christ… he wasn't sure how easily he was going to get over that. And Sherlock was right: she was already dead to begin with, and she's better off _completely_ dead. But how did she become what she was? What _was_ that, anyway? Well, when Lestrade comes around, everything will be explained, and everyone will be happy.

Sherlock came back in with a newly bought bottle and a couple of Q-tips. "Here. Now I'll get the tea started." He handed the supplied to John and went to the kitchen. John soaked a Q-tip in the chemical and began poking his wounds with it. _Ouch!_ He sucked in air through his teeth. Within minutes, John heard the kettle whistling. Sherlock came back with two cups and placed them on the small table in front of the couch. "You missed a scratch," He said, leaning over to John. He put his fingers on the injured man's hand and guided it to the wound that wasn't bubbling from the chemical. "Ow," John winced when the Q-tip touched it. Sherlock grinned. He let go of his hand, and sat in his chair. John waved at his face to dry the hydrogen peroxide as Sherlock sipped at his hot tea, observing John. He always found John comfortable. Tolerable, definitely. He never did what he did to him to anyone else before. He lifted an eyebrow at himself, recalling just a few minutes ago. He's always learning new things about his blogger, and he never ceases to amaze him.


End file.
